


Before the floorboards broke in on themselves like black holes

by SinkingSims



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Other, a character study which turns into a relationship study, alcohol mention, brief drug use mention, i just think past jongeorgie is neat, points at jon, this man can fit so many of my headcanons in him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-10
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:48:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23584114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SinkingSims/pseuds/SinkingSims
Summary: You both smoke outside at night even in the bitter cold, and it doesn’t matter if what you’re each inhaling has an entirely different set of effects, different smells, different tastes. What matters is the pale grey smoke curling out long and languid in the dark, telling your stories to the wind.
Relationships: Georgie Barker & Jonathan Sims, Georgie Barker/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	Before the floorboards broke in on themselves like black holes

He looks so out of his element the first time you see him that you almost want to ask if he’s looking for a different meetup. He practically radiates discomfort, sitting stiffly in a lonesome chair in the corner, arms folded and both feet flat on the floor, staring straight ahead. He could just as well be a statue as a student. When you choose to approach him after the event is over, the statue theory gains traction—his features could have been sculpted by some higher power, the angle of his nose and the sharpness of his jaw. But that’s neither here nor there, and you haven’t time for such things even if he didn’t have the demeanor of a skittish prey animal. 

When you reach out to shake hands and he practically recoils like your arm was a snake, you feel offended and almost ask him what his problem is. But you swallow that back down, because there’s nothing malicious about refusing a stranger's touch. You’re on the welcoming committee for Christ’s sake, _so get a grip, Georgie_. You introduce yourself as warmly as you can and he frowns as he does the same, like he can’t understand why you’re talking to him. His name is Jonathan; he prefers Jon. You’re both in the same college, now that you’ve switched out of Balliol and moved on to taking courses in journalism and business rather than English literature. 

You offer to walk with him to the bus stop, don’t mention that you hate being out alone at night because it stirs up feelings you’d rather keep buried. He curtly declines. Apparently, he’s too good for public transportation, choosing to walk instead. You hope he enjoys the blisters he’s bound to get on the half-mile walk across campus in his stupid rich-boy Oxfords (Does he think he’s clever?). You settle right into your schoolwork the moment you get back to your flat, sparing just a moment to greet your roommate and take a long drag off the joint she so generously offers to get rid of the nagging sensation that you aren’t truly a part of this world. 

* * *

You don’t know why you came back. There’s nothing _wrong_ with this sort of thing of course, and the people seem fine, although a bit forceful for your tastes. It’s just not for you. It turns out that _belonging_ is not a feeling that simply develops because you’re told it will. As usual, you feel like you’re missing some essential bit of information that everyone else is privy to. But there was that one (Georgia, was it?) who seemed to take an interest in you. You don’t know what motives she could possibly have, but you hope she’s lost interest. People generally do, once they actually speak with you. You’re comfortable with that, the familiarity of remaining on the outside, looking in. An observer, never a participant. A safe distance.

But despite your better judgement here you are in the same room as last week, that same uncomfortable chair in the corner. It’s your goddamned curiosity again, that nagging need to understand the way things work. Whether it’s more connected to the group itself or to that one specific member, well, you’d rather not think about it. You’ve brought a book this time, in the hopes of deterring any potential interactions with others. You’re not a part of this. You’re just here to take it in. 

_That person_ is indeed here again (you still want to say Georgia but it doesn’t sound quite right), which isn’t surprising as she seems to have some sort of leadership role in this group. You think you catch her looking at you sideways so you straighten your back and hold your book up to your face (because you forgot your blasted glasses today). She doesn’t try to talk to you which, of course, reifies your conviction that making connections here is fruitless. There’s a lot of mingling and then a casual discussion about attraction as a concept which you pretend not to listen to as your eyes scan the same page of your book over and over. Finally, something worthwhile for your research. 

It doesn’t answer what’s been nagging at you, however. You reason that instead of wasting your time here again next week, you’ll bite the bullet now—ask your question and be done with it. The thought of talking to her again is abhorrent, but it’s still a better alternative than having to go through the process of basic introductions and painful formal pleasantries. You slam your book closed and march up to her once most everyone else has trickled out of the room. 

“If someone kisses you, and you-you don’t _dislike_ it, might even consider doing it again, is that _romantic attraction_?” You throw air quotes around that last bit, because those are her words to the group from before. She tries and fails to stifle a laugh behind her hand and you feel the hot sting of rejection and glare at the wall behind her where it sits at about her eye level. 

“What’s funny?”

Her eyes widen and she stutters out what sounds like a genuine apology, but it’s hard to tell (you’ve been duped before). 

“That’s… it’s just a big question, you know?” She bites her lip. 

“Well? I thought that was the point of all of this.” 

You don’t understand. Your mounting embarrassment screams in your head, urging you to get away as fast as possible, but you play fervently with the end of your scarf instead. 

“Hm,” she says. “Walk to the bus stop with me?” 

Her tone is more commanding than questioning, but doesn’t sound demeaning or condescending either. You mumble an affirmative noise and walk stiffly behind her with both hands shoved deeply into the pockets of your jacket. 

“Can I get a do-over? Because I’d like to understand you better, if you’re willing to help me do that.”

Through the years you’ve learned that everyone has a motive. You’ll uncover hers one way or another.

“Why?” 

She just shrugs. “You’re a first year, right? You have any friends? Any social hobbies to speak of?”

“I prefer my own company.”

“Right.” She kicks her boot absently against the bus stop shelter. “Well, Jon, you look like a man who needs to talk to someone, and I’m willing to be that someone.”

“But _why_?”

“For Christ’s sake, just yes or no.”

“Um. Okay.” 

She waits quietly for the bus. You talk. You surprise yourself by how much you talk, stuttering through the whole ordeal that brought you to an Oxford LGBTQ meetup in the first place. You’re used to being interrupted, or even outright ignored, but she actually listens, only interjecting to ask for clarification on certain details. There was this party your flat-mate had dragged you to, you tell her. A horrible idea, to be sure, and you made it clear that you would not be accompanying him to any future gatherings. There was another student there, a year older than you if memory serves, who had a little too much to drink and took to following you around like a lost puppy. You stress to her how _annoying_ this was. 

“And?”

Your face gets hot with embarrassment as you fumble through an explanation of how he had leaned close to whisper something in your ear—you don’t know _what_ —and then kissed your cheek. Immediately you had fled to the toilet, panicked, and remained in hiding there for a good fifteen to twenty minutes until you finally calmed down. 

“Were you- _are_ you okay? Did that upset you?”

She’s not getting it. You sigh, a frustrated white cloud of breath in the chilly nighttime air. 

“It wasn’t _upsetting._ " You realize you’re doing that thing with your arms that your grandmother scolds you for so you force them stiffly to your sides instead, hands balled into tight fists. “It was just… a lot. Hard to process. A bit overwhelming.” You sigh again. “I didn’t have time to… prepare for it.”

“Would you want him to, uh, do it again, when you _are_ prepared?” 

Your ears are burning as you consider it and conclude that yes, you would. Just the idea of it gives you a phantom sensation on that cheek, as if you’re longing for it. Maybe you are. His lips were too wet, which was unpleasant. But they were warm, which wasn't unpleasant at all. 

“Did you get his number or anything?”

Of course you scoff at that. You didn’t even catch his name. After you escaped to the toilet he gave up and lost interest (like everyone does, you don’t say). 

“Hey, uh, are you trying to ask me if you’re gay? Because only you can answer that.” 

“I’m trans,” you blurt out, and your eyes bulge immediately because that is very much _not_ an answer to her question and also something you don’t tell anyone, especially not a virtual stranger. Through the panicked ringing in your ears you almost don’t hear her say it.

_Okay._

Just that. No fanfare, no shock, no dramatics of any sort. The bus comes into view and you dismiss yourself abruptly before she can say anything else. You don’t have a meltdown, but it does take three cigarettes on the walk home to fully calm your nerves. 

* * *

Jonathan Sims is not the person you thought he was. You’re willing to admit that, but only _just_. Damn your sense of right and wrong; damn that incessant twisting in your gut that you feel when you realize your presumptions don’t quite align with reality. You can’t say you didn’t try to ignore it for the sake of your pride, but it’s no use. Slowly but surely, you let those judgements you clung to as a reason not to get close slip through your fingers.

He’s no posh, stuck-up rich kid, despite the airs he puts on. He doesn’t have any wealthy family members with connections. In fact, from what you can gather, he hardly has any family at all—just a grandmother you can’t tell if he actually likes or not. Even though he didn’t grow up as poor as you, in some sense he actually had less. He’s here on a full scholarship, which you’re definitely _not_ jealous of, even though your own slightly lesser scholarship isn’t enough to keep your weekends free, instead spending most of them working double shifts as a server at a nearby restaurant. The more you spend time together the less you’re able to feel bitter about any of it because he’s perhaps the smartest person you’ve met here, at least where academics are concerned. He's earned his spot.

It’s enjoyable to slowly uncover the truth as sharp edges are eroded smooth with time and patience. He sticks his nose up at most television and movies and has to be coaxed and bribed to go anywhere that could have more than 10 people in the room, but it’s not out of some sense that he’s better than other people. Jon, you find, is always overcompensating for something, trying to demonstrate his own inherent worth in a world that looks down on him for all the parts about himself he had little choice in and cannot really change. That isn’t to say he doesn’t act like a wanker more often than not. A stubborn fool is what he is, rigid in his ways and brusque in his approach. It’s not an excuse to say it’s an act. That doesn’t make it okay. But it does give you a bridge to a bond, because at the end of the day, you’re an actor too. 

You’ve both evolved to adapt to a world that doesn’t really want you. It’s just that where you’ve chosen to blossom brighter, sweeter, he’s grown thorns. Whether to entice or to warn away, the underlying truth remains—you’re both faking it. He keeps going to the weekly meetups pretending he doesn’t want the warm embrace of acceptance to remind him he’s human. You keep up the warm smiles and the enthusiastic greetings as if you don’t wish half of these people would fuck off and never speak to you again, as if you don’t wish Alex were still here to tell them so herself. The masks you wear become the bridge between you. To remove them with no one else around is to meet in the middle—a scenic post from which you can both share the same view. 

It’s a random Friday evening which started with homework and ended with a little too much bargain-deal wine when you first consciously recognize the tether for what it is. He’s slumped against the wall on the floor beside your bed because even all these weeks into knowing each other he still feels like he’s intruding on your space no matter how often you tell him off about it. He’s holding his head in his hands and the alcohol slurs his mumbled words into something almost incomprehensible but you’re able to pick out _maybe bisexual, y’know?_

You don’t ask about it because questions embarrass him. Instead you just giggle and say _yeah, me too,_ which is stupid because he _knows_ that, has known it for weeks because you aren’t exactly shy about it. It’s just one more reason to loiter on that bridge and it feels like _relief._ It brings to mind the only time your family went on holiday, 9 years young and a whole week all yours to forget about the bare pantry at home and the mailman delivering another reason for your parents to fight when they thought the kids were asleep. 

You ignore all the ways you and him might clash spectacularly the same way you ignored the hole in the toe of your trainers so you wouldn’t have to see the worried frown on your mum’s face as she mentally sorted out whether she could get you a replacement pair. You both smoke outside at night even in the bitter cold, and it doesn’t matter if what you’re each inhaling has an entirely different set of effects, different smells, different tastes. What matters is the pale grey smoke curling out long and languid in the dark, telling your stories to the wind. 

* * *

Georgie Barker is not the person you thought she was. For one, her name is _Georgie_ (or Georgina if you have a bit of a death wish). This fact did not become clear to you until an _unacceptable number of weeks_ had passed (three, it was three weeks). She had made such a face, and you were sure this was it, the last of your nighttime bus stop chats. You shrank away from her in shame but she just laughed, said you shouldn’t be afraid to ask something so simple. But you’ve never been a brave man. Just a stubborn one, ignoring every sign or bit of a clue that could tell you what you’re walking into so you wouldn’t be walking in blind. You’re both walking there, together. But you don’t know where you’re going for a long time, and you don’t even know she’s there with you until even longer than that. 

When you do see and you do know, it’s sudden and scary, like an unfamiliar shadow cast in the hallway of the house you’re in right now. The hall you’re creeping down, trying to inconspicuously find the toilet, has too many doors and it's too narrow. Georgie warned you about the way these sorts of parties are, so now you don’t simply go around opening doors willy-nilly, because you never know what you might walk in on. You shudder at the thought. You just wanted a little respite from the noise and lights and people, but you didn’t actually register the directions to the restroom being mouthed at you over the music and you were too anxious to ask a second time. The fear is always of looking foolish, of being incompetent and dull and clueless. There aren’t any clues that lead you to the right room so you give up and head back to the main space where there are clues of a different kind just waiting to be found. 

The first clue is the way your anxiety spikes into beads of sweat under your arms when you scan the room and don’t see her amongst the groups of students smiling and laughing and dancing in various stages of inebriation. The second clue is the exhale of relief that follows when you finally find her in a corner near one of the speakers, a red cup in hand and leaning against the wall like it’s _her_ wall to lean against, as if she built that wall herself. 

Clue number three is what you make of the person standing next to her, which is that they are a twat. They’re drinking something from a _can_ so they must think they’re too good for the stuff from the kegs just because it reminds one of piss both in look and in taste. They open their mouth too wide when they laugh (too loudly, for sure) and they put their hand on her shoulder as if they own _her_ the way she owns the wall, as if you can compare a _person_ to a wall. The fourth and final clue is _the_ _nerve_ , _the absolute nerve, Jon,_ that you have to march over to her with a frown and pull her away from the conversation to tell her you're leaving. 

“What’s with you?”

It’s a fair question that he’s only just coming up with an answer to as they exit the house and shiver on the walk to the car, the one Gerogie borrowed from her roommate so they could get here without an outrageous cab fare. What’s with him is something unsettling, a feeling of swaying dangerously on unsteady ground although he’s stone cold sober next to Georgie (who is very much not). 

“You have to drive. I’m drunk.”

"Obviously."

He waits until they’re safely buckled and safely pulling away with the silhouette of the house safely in the rearview mirror to ask. 

“Did you get their number?”

“What?”

“The one who was chatting you up? Tall, bleached hair? Seemed like they were trying quite hard to be interesting.”

“Breaking news, Jonathan Sims finds someone _boring.”_

“I just wanted to know if _you_ were interested.”

“And what if I was?”

“Fine, forget I asked.”

“Done.” 

She puts her feet up on the dashboard (which makes him anxious), and she turns on the radio to something grungy (which makes him anxious), and she stares out the window as they drive back to the city, which _also_ makes him anxious, because once they get there the night is over. He doesn’t want it to be over, even though he’s the one who closed the front door behind them, who closed the passenger side door because Georgie was busy fumbling with the seatbelt, who closed his own door before carefully driving away. 

“Why did you agree to leave with me? You could have said no, you’ve done so before.”

There was plenty of furniture she could have camped out on. He knows because he took stock of it, to make sure she had the option available, because sometimes she _does_ stay over and it's sensible that she has a place to sleep if she does. She sighs and lets her head rest on the window pane and he wonders when she started trusting his driving enough to risk smacking her skull against some glass. 

“Maybe you were right. Maybe they _were_ boring.” She gets quiet for a while, and he waits for her because she always waits for him. “Or maybe I’m the one who’s boring, and I can’t have fun no matter how hard I try.”

“I don’t find you boring at all.”

“Yikes. It’s not looking good for me, then.” She grins at him and he continues to stare intently at the road. He’s frowning, but only just. 

“If you’re right—if I’m boring and you’re boring—then perhaps we should just stick to being boring together. Make both of our lives a little easier.”

He meant it as a joke, he’s _sure_ he meant it as a joke, but it just hangs there as she hangs her mouth open at him and he moves a hand to roll down his window a crack in the hopes that whatever _is_ hanging in the air between them can be resolved with a little fresh country air. 

She sighs and stretches and taps a hand against the door in time with the song on the radio. “Mm, yeah. Think I’d rather be boring with you than interesting with someone else.” 

“Well then. I suppose that’s sorted.” 

He’s warm from the top of his ears to the tips of his toes and it’s not a clue, it’s a flashing sign written on his cheeks in deep rouge that thankfully can’t be seen on his skin but can certainly be felt in every nerve and every pore. He feels it up to and including when he moves to put the car in park once they reach her flat and she moves to place her hand on his where it sits idly at the gear shift. 

“D’you know you still surprise me? And not just when I’m wasted.”

“I know nothing of the sort.” 

He’s not quite smiling, but only just. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really love these two, if that wasn't obvious. This was originally going to be longer and get sadder but I decided to leave it on an optimistic note because real life is sad enough. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated as always!


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